Pick a Pic Challenge
Title: Through the Trees
Penname: SeeMyEvil
Banner: Entry #13
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Isabella is haunted by an accident four years earlier and takes comfort in the only one who can understand—the man who died.
Disclaimer: All recognisable characters belong to Stephenie Meyer and her alone.
To see all the stories that are a part of this contest please visit: .com.
It was after an argument with her father that Isabella Swan found herself wandering. She didn't know where she was going; she simply pulled her boots on and threw open the back door. Her heavy feet drew her into the beckoning branches of the forest. Its swaying claws of wood and ivy tore at her coat; it was hastily shoved on as she stepped on her father's carefully ruined lawn. Isabella knew the significance of today but couldn't find it in herself to care what Charlie Swan thought of her grand exit. She knew she had aggravated him and spat harsh words at him. She also knew if she stayed in that house any longer, she would remember too much of what had happened. She did not want to remember anything, just wanted a clean slate—a clean mind. But she knew that was impossible.
Still she walked, not stepping in the mud quite as emphatically as she had before. The anger slowly drained out of her, brushed away by the wind. It was the twenty-ninth of February today, and the weather was unsympathetic to the feelings of the Swan household. The breeze, while it was cleansing, turned Isabella's hair into a great mess and blew her coat almost straight off. She anxiously pulled at the ends of the fraying fleece, trying to zip it up against the sudden gusts.
She was cold, as cold as she had been that day.
A bird called across the forest, sending a shiver down Isabella's spine and burning the scar on her abdomen. The stitches below her navel seemed to materialise again, tugging at the skin and causing excruciating pain as she walked. Isabella wondered when it would ever stop. She was confused; her hand ghosting over the mark she knew was there but couldn't see below the layers of clothes. The doctor with kind eyes had assured that in a few years, the incision mark would be completely invisible.
She wouldn't feel a thing.
But what did he know anyway? Isabella sighed, continuing on and ignoring the false feeling under her skin. Angrily, she thought back to the argument she'd had with her father.
. . .
"Why are you blaming me?" Charlie bellowed.
"Aren't you responsible?"
"How can you say that, Bells? I've cared for you and fed you and put clothes on your back. What way is this to treat me? What words to say?"
"Well done, Charlie, for looking after your only daughter. Give yourself a pat on the back!" At this, Charlie could scarcely believe his ears and fell back onto his La-Z-boy. "Oh, that's it, Dad, make yourself comfortable…" Isabella trailed off, catching her breath as she looked anywhere but at him.
"I did nothing."
"Exactly!" Isabella replied furiously. Now enraged, Charlie stood up to face his daughter. He couldn't take her words anymore than he had taken Renée's.
"Now listen here, Isabella—" he started, pointing an accusatory finger into her chest. "—I think this has gotten far enough. I didn't make your mother walk out of here; she made that choice herself. I didn't make her take you with her, either. In fact, I'd much rather you had stayed with me here. Renée did what she did and said what she said, it's nothing to do with you or me, and neither was that god damned accident!" This was the most Isabella had heard her father say in one breath. But she had more to say.
"If you had tried to stop her leaving that night, she would have missed that biker!"
Now that, Charlie could not deny.
. . .
A tear sprung from her eye, as hot as her heart. She didn't know what to think about what had happened those four years ago and she daren't think any more on it. After all, wasn't that what had started the argument? She had so much anger in her heart, pressing into her lungs and making it impossible to think or breathe. It couldn't be healthy.
. . .
A look of utter desolation came upon her father's face, a look so desperate and vulnerable that Isabella almost felt guilty for her words. Almost. Charlie fell back into his chair again; stared straight ahead. He looked right through Isabella, and she felt exposed. Her feelings were still raw.
"Leave," he murmured quietly. Isabella took a step back in shock at the echoing of words from that night so long ago. She took a staggered breath in.
"Just. Go." Charlie was despondent.
Isabella was broken.
. . .
But what had made her bring the accident up? Was it the dream the night before? Or was it when Isabella had looked at her desktop and seen the leap-yearly date that destroyed her family? Whatever it was, the results were explosive and she regretted ever bringing it up. But she needed to talk to someone. Anyone she tried didn't know what to say, and nor did they really want to hear it. Isabella had just barely come to terms with it.
With her eyes forward, a determined look came upon her face. She would not let this consume her—there was light at the end of the tunnel. She knew. There was nothing to stop her from doing well at school and achieving those A grades she had dreamt of as a younger child, less jaded. There was really nothing to stop her from taking that date Mike persistently offered her each week… she laughed. As if. And truly, what held her back but herself? She commanded her mind, forcing it to let go, internally pushing her hands into her chest and throwing away all of that anger.
She felt no better. It wasn't that simple. And then she stopped. She looked around her, finding nothing but darkness and nothing but trees. This place was empty and devoid of life. Isabella had found herself in a wasteland, the graveyard of winter surely. This was what she imagined movie directors searched for to shoot horror movies in. This area of land, bathed in the fast fading light of sunset was nowhere. She was lost in the woods and didn't know how she would get back.
Isabella squinted, looking through the trees. She could see a flickering light ahead of her and wondered if she had somehow walked right into First Beach up at the Reservation. What if she had stumbled on the campsite of an axe murderer? She felt her breaths quicken for a moment before she mentally took a hold of herself and shook the ridiculous thought away. There were no murderers in Forks, she scoffed under her breath.
So she moved forward, suddenly aware of the crunching leaves underfoot. She wondered absently what her boots looked like, and dreaded cleaning them off. Isabella rushed ahead, frantically shoving the reaching branches out of her way. The smell of wood fire hit her nose, the gentle musk creating a sense of comfort in her mind. It reminded her of a simpler time, before everything went wrong. Before that night.
Finally, she came into the clearing and found a hunched figure leaning over the fire in the centre of the dell. The pyre was piled high, and the heat reached Isabella at the edge. She reluctantly stepped further into the small meadow, feeling cautious of the figure. And as she got closer, she felt colder. She found herself rubbing at the outsides of her arms, trying to create friction through the heavily torn cotton coat.
The figure turned only half way, just enough to see his face in silhouette. She felt like she knew the mysterious man who sat before her and gazed intensely into her eyes. She could feel her scar burning and her cheeks filling with blood. The man narrowed his eyes hatefully and turned abruptly back to the fire. Isabella felt out of place, but not scared.
She only wanted to get warm.
Isabella drew closer still until she was only a couple of feet from the strange man's back. She observed him, saw the ripped dark leather jacket. She saw his hair was much darker at the back than at the front, but in this light could not discern its true colour. She could also see that he was shivering. He was cold too, despite what should have been the blazing heat of fire.
"Can I help you, sir?" she inquired. "You look cold." The man turned again and started at her closeness. Now she could see his scraped face, the designer stubble and dull green eyes. Now she could see the bizarre colour of his hair and knew undoubtedly who this man was.
"NO!" she staggered back. She recognised that curled dark red hair. It terrified her.
"Why did you take so long to get here?" he said slowly, confusedly. "I've waited an awful long time to speak to you. Where were you, Isabella?" The man stood, restored to his impressive height. He was still cold, but so was she.
Isabella tugged at her hair nervously, fearfully. She had a hand across her mouth, knowing without a doubt that she would scream if she uncovered it. This was her worst nightmare. She briefly considered running from the ghost, but then remembered what little success usually came of her running legs. She was frozen to the spot.
"What right do you have to come back?" she cried, fresh tears leaking from her eyes. "You died! You can't come back! Just go away!" Leave. Quickly she dabbed at her eyes with the end of her coat.
"Believe me, I wish I could," he whispered. "But I'm stuck here for whatever reason. Well, we know what fucking reason that is…" The last part was under his breath, yet she heard it. Isabella crushed her eyelids shut regretfully. She wanted to pretend she wasn't here, that she was nowhere; that no-one was standing next to her.
"I know. I was there when it happened."
The man looked up, smiling bitterly at her half-joke. "So you recognise me. I didn't think you would like to know who killed your mother."
"Edward Masen, no known relatives. Died on impact," she parroted the policeman's words, unable to look up. The grass was singed where burning ash had fallen, but the ground was too wet for it to catch alight. "At least you weren't in pain, I told myself."
"True. I felt nothing."
"Shame the same couldn't be said for my mother," Isabella choked.
"Hmmm," Edward mumbled. "Or for you."
Isabella looked up, brushing a careful hand over her scar, where shrapnel from the car had been pulled from her body. She remembered the pain it had caused, how she had ached all over for weeks and weeks. And then how her chest had ached much more for years longer.
"At least physical wounds can be healed. The emotional wounds I endured are much less easy to suppress. I still feel her absence, here." Isabella put both hands over her heart and pressed. She willed the torn feeling away with little success and the feeling of four years welled to the surface. Where had this come from? she wondered; she could usually control this quite efficiently—keep it ticking over. But now it boiled in her blood and grew in her cheeks. She felt so… angry.
"I want her back!" she screamed. "I want my Mom back! Give her back to me! NOW!" She rushed over to Edward and punched his chest repeatedly, desperately. "It's all your fault she died. Now you can undo what you've done. You can take her back. Do it now. Please? Please…" Isabella pleaded. "Give her back… I just want her back."
Edward hesitantly pulled her to him, put a hand on her back and patted it in an attempt to comfort her. It had been too long since he touched a real person. He missed the warmth in his heart and the feeling in his nerves. He missed everything human. It seemed Isabella's presence here gave some of his humanity back.
Soon, after she had choked on her tears and cries so many times he couldn't bear to leave her alone; Edward pulled both arms around her. He rocked her from side to side, much like he had held his younger sister before she passed away. His sister Alice had been terminally ill and wanted to be held one final time. Edward felt guilty for sharing this with Isabella, feeling as though he had replaced his sister. He pushed the pleading girl away and held her shoulders. She looked down, tears dropping from her eyes frequently as he watched her.
Eventually she looked up into his eyes, her own glassy and blurred. She found his brighter than when she saw them first, sitting beside the fire. Edward seemed more peaceful somehow, but there was something burning behind his eyes—a needy curiosity.
"What is it?" she asked, shakily, wiping the tears from her eyes.
"I want to know what happened that night; I want to know why your mother was on the road in that state." Isabella felt a weight drop in her chest, weighing her down. Could he have asked anything worse of her? She didn't think so. "Please… I have to know."
"It will probably make you angry," she replied. "That fire will go up into the sky and disappear, that's how angry you'll be." Edward cocked his head to the side, wondering what she meant. She guessed she had been watching too many ghost movies. "Why do you need to know? Is this what you need to make peace?"
Edward considered this for a moment before he answered. "I think so."
"Then I won't deny you it…" she sighed. "No-one should be stuck in Forks forever," she said laughingly. Edward smiled.
. . .
"Charlie, where are my old sketchbooks?" Renée inquired of her husband from the top of the stairs. Her voice echoed downstairs through the sound of the sports channel. Charlie grunted in thought before he yelled his answer up to her.
"I don't know."
"Wonderful," she hissed under breath exasperatedly. She stepped over to her daughter's bedroom door in bare feet and tapped on the wood. A girlish call of 'come in' rang in the room, and so her mother opened the door. Isabella was reading a copy of 'Wuthering Heights' on her bed that she had been given for Christmas. She looked up to study her mother, clad in a long purple skirt and a loose red blouse. Her dark hair was tied up in a bun, but strands escaped the sparkling hair band to fall across her face.
"Have you seen my old sketchbooks, sweetheart?" she asked gently. Isabella cocked her head in thought, giving the question serious consideration. "The ones from college?" Isabella inquired.
"Yes, those ones."
"I think I saw Dad throwing them out last weekend," she replied before returning her eyes to her book. Renée's face flashed in rage, pulling Isabella's door shut with force as her mind set on giving Charlie a serious telling off. Her heavy footsteps could be heard throughout the house and Isabella knew her mother meant business. Charlie, however, was absorbed in the football game on the television.
Renée came to stand in front of her husband with her hands on her hips. Charlie could still listen to the game, hearing it despite his wife's prominent position in front of the television. With that, she took the remote control from the arm of her husband's chair and switched the TV off. He sighed now, unable to ignore the oncoming onslaught.
"You threw my sketchbooks out?" she said, half questioning—half stating. Charlie pulled his hands into his lap and looked down. He knew he had done something wrong without even having to look at Renée's face. It was in her tone and the spread of her feet.
"I might have done," he replied.
"And why would you do that?" she shot back.
"I didn't think you would want them, or need them. You asked me to clean up, so I cleaned the house."
"Don't get smart with me, Charlie Swan."
"You want an honest answer, Renée?" It didn't sound like a question.
"Yes, please!"
"I saw those drawings, the notes and the photos. I know what you've been doing. You've been having an affair!" Charlie stood up, toe to toe with her. She gasped in surprise and shock.
"You looked through my books? How dare you!"
"Huh, well you won't even bother to deny it?"
"Would you rather I lied?" she shrieked.
"Yes, I think I would!"
Renée moved away from him to stand by one of the dining room chairs, using it to support her weight. She felt heavier than ever before. Charlie wasn't supposed to ever know.
"What, you didn't think I'd find them? They were on the dining room table for crying out loud!" he said disbelievingly. "You know, Renée, I could hardly believe my eyes; I didn't want to believe my eyes either to be honest. But what hurts the most is that you're throwing twelve years of marriage away for some 'minor league baseball player' who won't bring in the money to pay for anyone! What am I supposed to think this is about, but me?" She looked at him, sadly. "What did I do wrong?" he cried defeated, sitting back in his chair.
"You did nothing."
Tears fell from his eyes, burning his cheeks with the heat. "Our marriage is meaningless then, Renée? Is it? Did we raise our beautiful daughter for nothing?" He brushed his tears away and put his head in his hands. "We did nothing."
"That's it, Charlie."
There was a long, pregnant pause. Both parents were still on either side of the house, not quite sure where to go from there. What was left?
"Why did you wait, Charlie? Why didn't you let me have it when you threw the damned books out?" Renée wondered.
"Because I didn't want to believe what I saw."
"I see." Renée pulled the dining room chair out and rested her aching feet. She felt like everything was hurting and aching. Nothing was right anymore. She could pretend no more.
"That's right, make yourself comfortable," Charlie murmured, a withering look thrown over his shoulder at his wife.
"Well what would you like me to do, Charlie? Walk on hot coals? Slit my wrists?" Her voice rose in hysteria, dreading the next words that would come from her husband's mouth. She could see them coming.
"Leave."
Renée gasped in shock. She had anticipated this decision, knew that this may happen one day. In idle moments she had considered various scenarios in answer to the question… what if Charlie finds out? So… why did she feel herself become faint, feel empty inside? She expected this… but didn't really expect it.
"What about Bella?" The question neither of them had asked in the last twenty minute row hung in the air. "Shall I take her with me?"
It broke Charlie's heart to hear her acceptance of his asking her leave. He wanted her to fight back, to claim she would end it with Phil Dwyer. But Charlie didn't know if he could continue to look at his wife in quite the same way, kiss her… love her after he'd learnt that she had been held by another man.
"Just. Go."
Renée drew in a shuddering breath and stood, gathering a couple of photos from the mantel and moving upstairs. She dragged a suitcase from under their marital bed, tears still dripping from her face. She felt guilty and knew she wouldn't be able to go to Phil. She didn't know where she could go. And as she piled all the clothes she could fit into the suitcase, she thought sadly over the past twelve years. She would regret her affair for as long as she lived because she knew that wherever she was headed with Bella, it would never be as good or as stable as Forks.
She stopped packing for a moment and moved into her daughter's bedroom—not bothering to knock. Isabella was still sitting on her bed, but the book was overturned on the cream carpeted floor. Isabella had heard every word.
"We're leaving, aren't we?" Her mother nodded and bent over to drag Isabella's own suitcase from under her bed.
"You've got to pack your bag, now Bella. I'm so sorry…" She pulled Isabella into her arms and gripped onto her, pulling her so close to her chest she was sure she could feel Bella's heartbeat. What had she done? She was about to take her ten year old daughter away from all she knew, but she couldn't bear the thought of leaving her with a despondent and upset father. Renée thought Isabella would be safer with her. Reluctantly, she set her daughter down on the ground and ordered her to start packing.
The two of them spent the next ten minutes packing for the road trip, wondering what was in store for them next. When would they see Charlie again? Neither of them was sure.
"Mom, I'm finished," Isabella called from the doorway, pulling a wheelie suitcase behind her. It was clear from her red-rimmed eyes that she had shed a few tears too.
"So am I, darling," she responded, pushing her suitcase shut and tugging the zip along. "We're all set."
The pair of them quickly made their way down the stairs only to see that Charlie still sat in his chair, staring into the TV set. Renée directed for her daughter to put her shoes and coat on, as she did so herself. She picked up her keys from the table beside the door. Finally, she tugged her wedding and engagement rings off and set them on the same table.
"I'm sorry!" she called as she tugged Isabella out of the door and put their suitcases into the back of the car. She and Charlie had bought it two years ago as an anniversary present to themselves… ten meaningless years.
Renée buckled Isabella into the back of the car and rushed around to the driver's seat, still wiping tears from her face. It was dark and a fog was rolling in from the ocean—not even the moon was visible, despite the fact that it was full. She pulled out of the driveway and drove off into the night, wracking sobs taking hold of her as she handled the steering wheel. She knew she was weaving, and she knew she couldn't see. But she had to be strong for her daughter, they had to keep going.
But nothing ever did run smooth.
. . .
Edward sat in stunned silence. He wasn't quite sure what to say.
"So there you have it," Isabella said, to cut the quiet.
"Why did you think I would be angry?" he asked, crawling over to where she sat. Somewhere in the memory, she had fallen to her feet. This was something she had wanted to forget for so long, and yet it was still all there, as clear as day in her mind. She hated it and she loved it. This was the clearest memory she had left of her mother, but she wished she could remember something more positive this well instead.
"Because my mother was an idiot; she didn't stop when she probably knew she shouldn't be driving," she said simply.
"She was distraught…" Edward mumbled. "I can't really blame her for it." He sighed now, knowing the words but not entirely sure if he should speak them. "It's not as if I had anything to live for, anyway."
"Do you really think that?" Isabella asked incredulously. Edward nodded, regretfully.
"I had no family, they all died. And I was too upset to connect with anyone, or too stubborn; I can't decide." He half laughed at his own joke.
"How old were you?" Isabella asked.
"I was twenty-three."
"Jesus…" Isabella hissed. "It's really not fair. I'm sorry for my mother." She reached out for his hand. "I'm really sorry."
"And I'm sorry for hitting your car," he replied. "Were you injured?"
Isabella carefully lifted her coat and top to the freezing air, baring the straight line of pink scar tissue to Edward. He leaned closer to study it.
"That's where they cut you for surgery?" Edward gestured to the line in her skin. Isabella nodded. "I'm sorry."
She lowered her top, shaking her head at him before she began to speak. "No-one was to blame. It was an accident." Edward nodded in agreement.
"I'm still sorry, though," Edward insisted. He smiled slightly, and so did she. "How old were you when it happened?"
"Eleven."
"I'm sorry you remember so clearly, still."
Isabella had to put him right, he didn't seem to understand. "Stop saying sorry; no-one was to blame." He nodded as he had before, but unsmiling.
He took both of her hands in his and pulled her into his chest, hugging her closely. She could hear the absence of a heartbeat, and yet Isabella wasn't chilled. It didn't frighten her. Not as it had before. This was Edward, a dead man. He could do nothing to hurt her as she could do nothing to hurt him.
He pulled a full breath in, gasping as he looked up into the sky.
"The darkness is radiant," he said smiling. She looked up to him, then to the sky. "Thank you, Isabella." His teeth were white as he grinned wider than ever before. "I can leave." Isabella felt his substance fading, felt him becoming less than material. He was leaving now, and she likely would never see him again.
"Will I ever see you again, Edward?" she asked sadly. Now that she'd met him, she didn't want him to go. Wasn't death cruel? It took away the very best of times in the blink of an eye, and this was the lightest Isabella had felt in a long time. Who could she speak to now? How could she carry on with no-one to talk to about the past? She stood, stepping away from him before she fell onto the cold ground. Edward rose with her, gazing wondrously at his hands. She couldn't bear to see him go.
"I'm sure of it, Isabella," he said jovially. The tips of his hair were disappearing completely now.
"When?" she cried, tears now falling from her eyes afresh.
"Soon!" he shouted, stepping back. He was fading fast.
"I don't want you to go!"
"But I must, Isabella."
"Please!"
"We will meet again—I'm sure of it!" His shout seemed to echo around the clearing as he took several more steps back. He turned around; the darkness at the back of his head was light now as he walked into the wood fire. His figure faded into the fire then, and with his spirit went the brightly burning fire in a flash. It was as if there had never been any fire at all—she could smell no smoke.
Isabella stood there for a moment in shock, silently wondering whether she was entirely sane. Had the ghost of Edward Masen been real? Or was she so desperate to talk about the accident that her mind would create someone for her? She didn't know. Isabella took a slow breath in of the night air, cooling her chest and filling her lungs. She felt calmed by this revelation, this meeting with the dead. She felt she could face the world anew, but in his short absence yearned for her departed friend. In her mind, she clung to the idea of meeting him again, just as promised. Though far down, in her heart of hearts, it was a given that when the passed left—they were never seen again. She knew.
"BELLA!" her father's voice called through the trees frantically. "WHERE ARE YOU?"
"Over here," she whispered quietly.